Voices
by Jude81
Summary: Lexa gives Clarke the air from her lungs. This is the companion piece to "Breathe." It is about the same event, but from Clarke's point of view. I am writing a 3rd companion piece that shows this event from a completely different perspective that will pick up after this. While you don't have to read "Breathe" first, this will probably make more sense if you do.


Voices

You've been waiting for her.

Waiting for her to wake.

Or maybe you've been waiting even longer. Waiting since she left you standing there. She said words, but you couldn't hear them over the wailing in your chest. It was you. You were the one wailing, but she didn't hear you.

Would it have mattered if she had heard you screaming for her?

But you really don't remember. You don't remember much of anything anymore. The voices in your head whisper to you. A hundred mournful wails hush through your mind, and you can't hear anything else.

You aren't even sure that you hear the voices so much as see the voices, and endless dying parade that never ends.

It is what has driven you from the Deadlands back into the forest.

Back into her forest.

You're chasing a voiceless ghost that draws you in and paces to the erratic beat of you heart. You whisper it to yourself…

Skaikila.

Skaikila.

But no one else hears you whisper. The word dies on your lips. It's fitting. It's what they call you now.

Sky Killer.

You brought a mountain to its knees. You shattered rock and bone, and then you sealed the dead in gaping maw of the earth.

And…

And… you went a little mad. You scrabbled for shreds of your sanity, viciously protecting it, even while the voices chanted, and your blades sliced flesh and bone. You didn't even hear them scream. Nothing drowns out the whispers.

And so here you are now.

In her tent.

A wisp of a shadow. A dervish in a dead wind.

She is awake.

You want to run. You don't want to do this, and you think you still have time, you still have a shred of coherent thought. Even in your madness, you feel.

You fucking feel.

But they don't stop. They never stop! And you know they will only be appeased once her blood stains your skin.

You are a fool.

But then you feel the press of her body. You can't remember what it feels like. What it felt like the day you backed her into the table, and she snarled at you. You don't remember the taste of her mouth. They've stolen this from you.

So you press hard against her, your mouth closing over hers, sharp and heavy. You suck at the air in her mouth, and draw it into your lungs.

You want to FEEL her.

You want to feel life. Feel it swell inside your chest, drive the cold from the hollow of yourself.

But there is no rest for the wicked. And you are wicked. So very wicked, because you feel a perverse sense of glee when she struggles weakly against you.

You want her to starve, and her flesh shrivel. You want her lungs to burn and explode. You feel her hands slap at your chest. But you don't actually feel them. Everything is dull and solid. You feel her from a distance, even though you can smell the sweat of her skin.

You've trapped her in the cage of your arms. You expected her to be afraid. She is only animal instinct now, fighting to survive.

Just a fucking animal, following biology and nature, an unforgiving nature.

Love is weakness. She taught you this, and you've learned it well.

You want her to FEEL you.

So you force the air back into her lungs.

You hope she fucking drowns in your breath.

Because you have already drowned, and there is nothing left.

You're an empty husk, a remnant of a world before. So you dig your fingers into her hips. You hope you bruise her, mark her. You are going to brand her. Because she is yours. She has always been yours. And you've always been hers, and this is how it ends. This was always how it was going to end.

And you don't know what it means when your belly tightens with a strange heat, and the voices whisper and whisper and you want to shake your head, and you want to drive them out, and you want to fall into her, and die inside of her.

You want. And you want.

And you fucking want.

But you realized it too late, and now there is nothing left to do.

Blood will have blood.

You ignore the warmth of her mouth, the weight of her firm body against yours.

You are cold. You are stone. You are a mountain, and you will not be moved.

The blade is warm in your palm. It was nestled against your hard flesh, near the space where your heart once lived. It's gone now. You are sure of it, even when you feel it pound and roar inside your cold chest, you are absolute that it is gone.

The blade is warm in your palm.

You wonder if she knows what is coming. Her green eyes are so…you don't know what. They remind you of the new grass along the river, of the dark waxy leaves on the tall trees that strain and reach for the sky.

You want to press your lips against her eyes, and taste the green on your tongue.

You don't.

Instead….

You slip the blade in between her ribs. You feel the first drips of blood, and she looks at you surprised.

Her eyes are soft and wet.

You wrap your arm around her and cradle her to you. You gently pull her body in to you, feeling her flesh split along your blade, and for one brief moment you are both there, breathing the same air. She is with you. In you. And you feel….whole.

And she gives you a little smile. And you feel relief, when her blood slicks across your hand.

Her breath flutters out around you, hangs in the air, heavy and thick. You flick your tongue out, and taste it as you let her gently slip to the floor. You follow her to the floor, letting your knees hit with a thud.

You can hear her.

You can finally hear her.

You hear the gentle sigh. Her eyes flutter shut, and you think.

You think.

She knows.

You think she may even forgive you a little.

You wonder if you will ever forgive yourself.

As her green eyes close one final time, you think that it had been easier than it should have been. But maybe now you can sleep. Maybe now the rage will burn itself out, and the taunting voices in your head will cease. How wrong you are.

How fucking wrong you are.

You lay her on the ground, and you feel that final piece of your heart shatter into dust in the cavern of your chest. You are shocked. You didn't think there was a piece left big enough to break, to crumble, to shatter.

You sit next to her.

Your hand is on her belly.

It's warm.

You imagine it rises slightly under the heavy weight of your hand.

You wait.

You wait.

They will come for you.

Let them.

You owe them blood, and they still owe you their pound of flesh.

The voices only scream louder.

THE END. At least until the 3rd piece is up.

Notes: So, I think Breathe is actually the stronger piece. The 3rd installment takes places after this, and puts a whole new perspective on what happened. It will probably make you happier. It made me happier, or you can stop reading here and wallow in the miserable angst of this story.


End file.
